


Aphotic

by Be_eating_you



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Evisceration, Gen, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Violence, M/M, References to Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_eating_you/pseuds/Be_eating_you
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham experiences nightmares, and recalls his capture of Hannibal Lecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Will Graham watched the blurry impressions of Lecter’s warm fingertips disappear off the surface of the cold, black, plate. Some dark fluid was pooling on the surface of the plate, spilling over the two pale lumps that sat in the center. Slowly, Will’s eyes focused on what those lumps were – ice cream. Homemade ice cream. Lecter’s hand swam back into view, ladling the chocolate out, then placing an accent.

An eyeball with a bright blue iris stared up at Will. Behind him, close to his ear, Lecter spoke, “What do you see, Will?”

He could hear his own ragged breathing as he sat up in bed, sweat making his skin sticky. Beside him, his wife was also sitting up, reaching out to place her hand on his shoulder, “Will? Are you alright?”

“Yeah…I’m…yeah, I’m fine, Molly,” Will stammered out, hearing the edge in his voice, “it was just a nightmare.”

The look on his wife’s face was sympathetic. She’d been there for many of his nightmares, even the ones that came true. Reflexively, he reached up to touch his face but she caught his wrist before he could. Her fingers closed around his, pulling his hand to her chest instead.

“You’re alright. You’re here,” her voice was soothing to him, “it is 2:35 AM… Willy is asleep… the dogs are fine…”

Will looked into her eyes, watching the bright blue irises and had to look away, “I dreamed about Lecter.”

There was a silence, but she squeezed his hand, “Try to go back to sleep.”

• • • •

Will focused on the boat motor, feeling the cold grease on his fingers and trying desperately to ignore the pounding of his own heart in his ears. It had become harder to get lost in the little things, the things that had once enraptured his focus entirely. Now, the smallest distractions could bring him back to the surface, hitting on some memory and pulling him unwillingly into a different headspace.

He was listening to his heart beat again, the steady internal thump providing a distinct contrast to the sound of a knife being sharpened. In his mind, he was watching Hannibal’s back while the man sharpened a knife. He could see the curve of his shoulder, the shape of his scapula, through the well-starched shirt. The motion of sharpening the knife was as effortless as breathing for the man. Just as practiced as drawing breath, too, as if Hannibal Lecter had been born to sharpen that knife.

“What are you thinking, Will?” his voice was just as keen and cutting as the sound of the blade. Will was awarded a momentary glance of Hannibal’s face over his shoulder, dark eyes ever focused and intent.

Will shook his head, though he knew that he had said something in his memory. He had said something that had caused Hannibal to set the knife down and to give him one of those quick smiles. Hannibal gestured for him to follow him, and Will found himself in another room of the man’s house, just as tastefully decorated as the rest. Now, it was a scalpel in his hand, held expertly and pushed against the pencil, peeling the pulp away from the graphite, generating a point that glistened in the light of Will’s memory.

It seemed as if Hannibal was sharpening the pencil forever while they said words that Will could remember but refused to. The drawings swam in and out of his vision and his memory… drawings of people, of animals, buildings… reproductions of forgotten illustrations. The Wound Man seemed like a person in his own right, less of a drawing and more of an animated thing that walked towards him from the darkness. He was made of paper, and yet he was still capable of bleeding – still capable of staring into Will’s eyes. Then, the book was in his hand. He could feel the weight of it, and the softness of the paper where it had been dog-eared. The shadow of the Wound Man was on the page, darkening the paper further, making the graphite note beside the recipe appear inky. Permanent.

“What do you see, Will?” Lecter’s voice was in his ear, but it was nothing compared to the deafening sound of his heart in his ears. The sound was worse that the feeling of Hannibal’s fingers on his shoulder, or his arm wrapping around his torso. It was worse than the feeling of the linoleum knife ripping through his clothes and finally his skin. Lecter’s hand became an even firmer pressure, forcing him down to his knees. Oddly, he was aware of the warm wetness of his blood seeping into the denim of his jeans and the memories that it brought forward. Though, this was a different kind of dampness, thicker. More deadly. His head was down and he caught a glimpse of his own organs, his hand desperately attempting to push them back into his body as if on its own volition. He had no memory of trying to hold his own intestines, though he did remember what they felt like.

Hannibal was speaking in his ear, supporting him with one arm even as the strength drained out of his body. These words weren’t as easy for him to recall, swimming in and out of the haze of shock. There was something sympathetic—kind, even— about what Hannibal was saying to him, and even the way that he held his body. Even though he was easing Will down into death, it was a regretful action. Lecter’s voice was reassuring him that he had not wanted it to end this way, even as darkness edged around his vision.

Lecter’s eyes were the last thing that Will remembered seeing. The light caught in the maroon irises, making them come alive with sparks of red.

“Will?” Molly’s voice brought him out of the memory again and he looked up, “Here.”

She handed a card in an envelope down to him and he looked at it with apprehension. He only knew one person who had a habit of sending cards… and an uncanny sense for when they were least appropriate. Molly seemed to share his apprehension, watching him open the envelope with his greased hands.

It was a handmade card. The white paper was embossed with a gold ‘missing you’ on the front.

A recipe card fell out on his lap.


	2. Chapter 2

Cold water ran down his face as the first few strained notes of the composition reached his ears. Will splashed his face with water again, trying to pull his mind back into the reality of his body… but it was useless.

The music played.

He dipped his hands into the dark water, cupping them, and drawing them upward to splash the liquid on his face. The warmth betrayed it. Too thick and too sticky for water, he looked down into the bowl and saw blood, his own intestines providing a pink and purpled accent.

“I don’t want this to be painful for you, Will,” Lecter whispered in his ear, his lips just barely brushing against his skin, “cruelty is rather unnecessary in this circumstance.”

“Hannibal…”

“Shh. Don’t strain yourself, Will,” Hannibal continued to speak, an arm firmly around Will’s chest.

“Go easy,” Hannibal’s voice was different now, rougher. It was transitioning into something else, altogether. No, not something. Someone. “Take it easy.”

Will blinked and looked at the water bottle in his hand. Luke warm water was on his face, clinging to the corners of his mouth and the stubble on his chin. Pooling, he tried not to think though it came anyways, in the scars. He took a deep breath.

“I want to know how Hannibal Lecter keeps getting my address.”

“I don’t have an answer for that right now, Will, but I’ll try to find out. I got a card from him, too… though yours sounds like something that would have been impossible for him to send. He doesn’t have access to anything that could emboss.”

“It looked like… some kind of paper was ripped out. Maybe it was a card he was sent or…”

“Take a breath, Will. Lecter’s behind bars, where he belongs.”

“He found me.”

“I know. We’re looking into it. Will…”

“What?” There was an edge to Will’s voice that he hadn’t realized was there. He took a deep breath, pressed the water bottle to his head.

“There is the possibility that this was someone else, and not Lecter at all. Someone trying to get a rise out of you. Can you think of anyone who’d do something like that?”

“I don’t know, Jack. Maybe Hannibal Lecter? Fuck…” Will’s hands were shaking as he tried to open the water bottle. He gave up and set it down, “It looked like his handwriting. I can’t forget his handwriting.”

“…We’ll know more about that when it is analyzed. How’s Molly, Will?”

“Understandably pissed off. Worried about her kid, again. The last time something like this happened…” he trailed off. He didn’t need to tell Jack Crawford what had happened to his family, with Dolarhyde in the house. He tried to take another breath, tried to calm himself, but not to the point where he’d slip back into that headspace. “I keep having nightmares.”

“No one can blame you for that, Will. Try and get some rest. This is being handled.”

Will hung up, nearly dropping the cell phone as he did so. He leaned his head back against the wall and took a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly through his mouth like one of the many therapists he’d seen had suggested, trying to get him to calm down.

He swallowed heavily, rubbing his palms into his eyes until he started to see bright sparks of light in the darkness.

The white sparks resolved themselves to red and Will found himself looking into Hannibal’s eyes. They were sitting in the darkness and the silence between them was becoming uncomfortable. Will rubbed at his eyes again, but Hannibal’s face remained. His expression was somewhere between stony and sympathetic… a rare look that Will found was mostly reserved for him, personally.

“Jack says that he has it handled,” Hannibal’s voice was smooth, and in this near dream state, it seemed to wash over Will like smoke from a fire. He couldn’t get the feeling of that voice off of his skin.

“Jack says a lot of things,” he answered automatically, remembering the feel of his lips forming those exact words, “and some of the time he’s right. Some of the time, he’ll force it until he’s right.”

“How do you feel about that? Do you feel you are being forced?”

“Sometimes,” Will was unable to control his point of view as he lapsed into the memory. His gaze wouldn’t linger on Hannibal’s eyes, though they were burned into his memory as if he had stared into them for longer than a few seconds, “most of the time. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. He’s going to push it until I just can’t get back up.”

 “This may be true,” Hannibal was moving, stepping around the table with the same over-precise grace of a stalking cat, “do you feel as if you can ‘get back up’ right now?”

 “I’m up and running.”

“But which way?” Hannibal was looking down at him, one hand moving to take his glasses off of his face. His vision swam, blurred by the lack of focus. He could see the movement of Hannibal rubbing at the lenses of his glasses with a cloth. Then, his vision abruptly returned, his glasses once more perched on his nose.

“Did you… have to do that?”

“I cannot believe you could see clearly, from the state of your glasses. Come here, Will. I have something I would like to show you.”

Will followed Hannibal through the doorway and found himself in his own kitchen. He looked around, feeling momentarily disoriented as he was dropped from headspace to reality. Though, he couldn’t be certain it actually was reality. He took his glasses off and rubbed at the lenses. Replacing them on his nose, he focused on the business card that had been left behind on his kitchen table. The man who had come to collect the card (and the enclosed recipe) for analysis had left it behind. Will picked it up and carried it across the kitchen, attaching it to the front of the fridge with a magnet. Just beneath it was a drawing Molly’s son, Willy, had done of one of the dogs… mutated in the way that children are only capable of making endearing. A brief smile crossed his face and he opened the refrigerator. This was reality.


	3. Chapter 3

Will sat down heavily at the bottom of the stairs, cradling his head in his hands. The night air was warm and sticky, as it often is in Florida. In the distance, some frogs were peeping at each other, accompanied by a chorus of night insects.

The card that had been delivered to his house had had Lecter’s prints on it. The recipe card was confirmed to be his handwriting, though the ‘I thought you’d enjoy this one’ written in felt tip marker was the only recent mark on it. The recipe card itself had no doubt been filled out years ago, when Lecter was still a free man. How and why he had it in his possession was beyond Will, and he didn’t want to dwell on it. 

He didn’t particularly want to dwell on the recipe, either, though it brought up memories. He wished that there were some way to get away from the memories of being in Hannibal Lecter’s company, much less befriending him. The man had played them all, and Will worst of all. He’d thought he had found someone, some other human being, who could truly understand him. 

The fact that the only person who seemed to understand and empathize with him fully was a prolific and dangerous serial killer was not lost on Will.

Of course. Of-fucking-course. 

He rubbed his temples and thought about calling Jack Crawford to yell at him, though that’d do little good. It would all be chalked up to the alcohol and nothing else, no real reason to be irritated about the fact that Hannibal Lecter had his home address again. 

Before everything had come to light, he had gladly allowed Hannibal into his home. He’d given him a key to the front door. Will felt there was some kind of symbolism there relating to his mind, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. He didn’t want to dwell on anything, and even the word dwell was poisonous in this context. Hannibal Lecter was dwelling within his mind, like all the other killers he had ever looked at… save for the fact that Hannibal had been invited with kindness, hope and trust. 

He took a deep breath and the darkness beyond his porch seemed aphotic, as if some creature of the unknown depths was about to emerge. The approach would be slow and alien rather than screeching and sudden, and that had its own horror. He found himself holding his breath as his mind sank into the darkness. 

Hannibal’s footsteps stopped on the stairs above him. Will could tell it was Hannibal without turning around. He had a particular gait…and he was the only person Will could think of who’d wear shoes that nice to a crime scene. Not that he had noticed Hannibal’s shoes. He’d been grateful for the presence of the man beside him, grateful that Jack Crawford allowed that one companion as he asked Will to look. Hannibal seemed to be the only one who understood exactly what it took out of Will. 

“Will,” it wasn’t a question, more of an acquisition of the proper target, “you disappeared and Jack sent me to find you. I delayed this as long as possible; to give you some much needed privacy. However, I can only stall for so long. Are you ready to come up now?”

Will looked at his own clothes. Clothes he had worn years previously. A jacket he still owned, but never touched. He slowly looked up at Hannibal. A bright light somewhere up the darkened stairwell silhouetted the man, giving him the momentary illusion of possessing a halo. There may have been a time when Will felt like it was possible that Hannibal could save him, but that visual illusion was broken as abruptly as the real illusion. Hannibal sat down beside him on the concrete stair. 

“I lied when I said I was up and running,” Will’s voice was harsher than he remembered, “well…not exactly.”

“You are up and running away from the work that you cannot do, presently,” Hannibal was digging in the pocket of his suit, “you have reached a point where you have broken away from reality, and you feel there is nothing to do but retreat, in the hopes that reality is somewhere behind you. Here.”

He pressed something into Will’s hand. Will looked down at the piece of candy, then back at Lecter, “Did you make this, too?”

“Sometimes cooking has interesting bi-products, one of which is glycerin,” Hannibal folded his hands in his lap as he spoke, “it gives the candy a natural sweetness with less sugar, and keeps it soft. Having something sweet in your system right now would be useful.”

Will unwrapped the little piece of taffy and popped it in his mouth. It was sweet, but not overly so, flavored with some kind of fruit juice. He sucked on it more than chewed, thankful for the momentary distraction. Silence passed between the two men, then Hannibal reached out, resting his hand on Will’s shoulder. 

“It is alright to balk in the face of such horrible things,” Hannibal’s voice was so reasonable, “your gift is useful to Jack, but one that is also hard to understand.”

“That’s what I hear,” Will muttered, finding himself leaning towards Hannibal, craving the reassurance as much as he hated depending on anyone in that way. He hated the fact that he had to have handlers, people to provide him buffers from the world that few others seemed to have a problem interacting with. Hannibal noticed that he was leaning in and shifted his body to provide more support, slipping his arm around Will’s back. 

The sound of the little frogs and insects was consumed by the road noise in the memory. Will found himself staring at his hands as he felt Hannibal leaning in even closer, sniffing at his neck. He couldn’t help but immediately feel on edge, the hairs on the back of his prickling. 

“Again?”

“You stopped wearing that atrocious cologne. It makes you more tolerable.”

“I don’t understand,” Will shook his head, “you can smell some things from across the room, but you have to get in my space to smell me?”

“A matter of preference,” Hannibal murmured beside him. Will could remember what happened then, the fact that Hannibal had stood and urged him to come back up the stairs. But that wasn’t happening in this memory. Hannibal was still there, still leaned close to him, his breath puffing illogically cold against his neck. Will closed his eyes, unable to move as the other man kissed his ear, traced the shell of it with the tip of his tongue, then bit down with those neat, white, teeth. Despite being able to hear and feel his flesh being pulled away, he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, frozen in a memory that didn’t happen, listening to Hannibal Lecter eating his face as much as he was feeling it. Hannibal’s hands wrapped around his head, forcing him to look at him, to see the blood on his lips, caught in his too straight teeth. He leaned in, kissing Will for one painful moment before biting down. Why the kiss was more painful than the bite, Will didn’t want to contemplate.

“Jesus Christ, Will!” Molly’s scream broke him from his trance. Cold sea water splashed over his chest and into his mouth, and her arm wrapped around his chest from behind. She was dragging him back to shore, kicking with her powerful swimmer’s legs. 

He hadn’t even realized he’d been drowning.


	4. Chapter 4

Will shielded his eyes against the flashing red and blue lights, a soggy towel draped across his shoulders. Molly had called the police, afraid that he was attempting suicide. He tried to argue with her that he didn’t remember walking to the beach, much less getting in the water, but that did nothing to calm her down. The TV was on inside the house, but no one was watching it. 

The neighbors had taken Willy, no questions asked, when Molly had called. They were good people. The kind of good people who probably had some kind of horrible secret, but maybe that was just Will’s pessimism showing. Molly was sitting beside him again, her thin hand rubbing his back through the towel. 

“I don’t know how much more I can take,” her actions and her expression said together, “this is getting to be too much.”

“Officers,” was the only word that actually came out of her mouth. The two uniformed police officers stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at the couple. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Graham?” one of the officers drawled and Will thought about how odd that actually sounded. Mr. and Mrs. Graham. He nodded his head, tightening the towel around his shoulders. 

“Everything’s alright now?” the other officer chimed in, “We got a call about a suicide attempt. How are you feeling, Mr. Graham?”

“Cold. I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Will coughed, “I was sleep walking, or something.”

The two officers looked at each other. Will knew that look. That look said they wouldn’t blame him for trying to kill himself, after looking at his face. They wouldn’t blame him, knowing who he was. They certainly as hell didn’t buy his excuse. One of the officers looked at Molly, and Will felt like he was being talked over in the way that people talk over small children, thinking they don’t understand. 

“Does he usually sleep walk?”  
“He used to,” Molly rubbed her hand over her face, “before we met. I’ve never personally seen him do it.”

“Has he been acting unusual, ma’am? Do you have reason to believe that he’s a danger to himself and others?”

“I wouldn’t have called you otherwise,” Molly’s response was curt, then her voice softened, “I’m sorry, Will.”

“Mr. Graham, are you familiar with the Baker Act?” one of the officers asked, pushing his hat back on his head. He was probably younger than Will was, though he had the facial expressions of a much older man. He’d already seen to much bullshit in his young life. 

Will grimaced, feeling his body shaking, “I’m familiar enough that I know I’m about to be Baker Acted.”

The second officer nodded, “That’s the way of it. We’re going to place you under a 72 hour involuntary psychiatric hold, based on your wife’s report. After 72 hours, if you’re determined to no longer be a threat to yourself, they’ll let you go. We’d prefer it if you came along willingly.”

“Willingly come along to an involuntary psychiatric hold,” Will scoffed, but he stood. He was still shaking, the fear of never seeing the light of day again creeping up on him. Psychiatric institutions terrified him. It was possible that they’d keep him over the 72 hours, that they’d keep him infinitely. Will Graham in custody. Will Graham, under evaluation. 

“I’m sorry, Will,” Molly whispered behind him, as he stepped from the porch to the stairs. He didn’t look at her, letting one of the officers take his arm and lead him towards the squad car. 

He kept his head down as he was put in the back of the car. They were soon on the road, the cops riding in silence while their radio buzzed and crackled. Somehow, that was worse than sheer silence. The radio was a peek into the world of crime and misdemeanor that Will had tried to escape. The codes were familiar, the bored way that the dispatcher talked. All too familiar. 

“Buffalo Bill skinned another,” one of the cops finally spoke, quietly. It wasn’t meant for Will to hear. 

“I saw that on the news,” the other officer replied, “that, and the FBI broad beating the crap out of a reporter with a jack.”

Will tilted his head slightly. Had he been that caught up in his mental world, that he’d missed news? He was actually surprised that Jack hadn’t asked for his help with Buffalo Bill… though, he was also thankful. Very thankful. 

The officers fell back into silence, leaving Will to wonder who “the FBI broad” was, and why he cared. He leaned his head back against the seat, feeling the dampness of his hair and the towel on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes. 

“I would feel more comfortable with you under my supervision,” Hannibal’s voice sounded tinny, like it was coming through a small speaker, “just for a short time. Do you trust me, Will?”

“Of course I do,” Will answered automatically, following the script of the memory, “who else am I going to trust?”

Hannibal’s smile was quick, fleeting. He tapped Will on the shoulder, “I have something to show you.”

Will was following him again, from room to room, winding their way back to the kitchen. Will leaned against the counter while Hannibal brought down a recipe box. He set it in front of Will. 

“As you can imagine, I collect recipes. Most of them, I keep here,” he opened the box and pushed it towards Will. It was a rather plain box, the recipe cards inside written out in Lecter’s clean handwriting. 

“It would be polite, since I am keeping you here, to allow you to choose your dinner,” Hannibal turned away from him, going to wash his hands, “I will make whatever you choose, providing I have the proper ingredients.”

Will watched Hannibal, then looked down at the recipe box. He thumbed through it, leaving behind the fingerprints that he would later be questioned about. Was he can accessory to Lecter’s crimes? Had he known all along what Lecter was? He was eventually cleared, but the regret had lingered. He regretted everything he had touched in Hannibal’s home. Every place he had laid or sat down. Every meal he had eaten. 

Even in his memory, he seemed to lapse out of reality. He was surprised when Hannibal’s hands grasped his shoulders firmly. For a moment, it felt like he was being scruffed, then it resolved itself into a shifting pressure…Hannibal was rubbing his shoulders. 

“Do you see anything that you would like?”

“Uhhh…” Will swallowed, “I…”

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“It is…a space thing. The touching? I…”

“Ah, forgive me,” Hannibal stopped rubbing his shoulders and stepped away, “it was not my intention to startle or discomfit you.”

Will just nodded and turned his attention back to thumbing through the recipes. Everything was so damned fancy, calling for ingredients Will had never really thought about eating. He cleared his throat, “I think you gave me all the recipes you reserve for your parties.”

Hannibal reached around him for the box, snapping it closed, “I can make something simple, if you prefer. It is not often that I let someone else decide the menu.”

“I’m touched,” Will muttered at the counter, “but I don’t know. I just can’t think of food right now.”

Hannibal nodded, “Go, sit down. I will bring something to you.”

Will found himself stretching out on the sofa, aware of the fact that back in reality, back in his body, he was laying down on a simple cot, under observation. It was strange… his memories of being in Hannibal’s company were a more comfortable retreat than dealing with the thought of observation. What did it say about his fear of psychiatric hospitals that he’d rather be with Hannibal in his mind? 

He turned Hannibal’s TV on, placidly watching the reports of the man’s crimes, watching himself freeze up once the camera was pointed at him. He couldn’t remember what had actually been on the TV at that time, when what was happening was reality and not memory. He tucked his arm under his head and stared blankly at the atrocities that passed by on the screen, almost dozing off until Hannibal came to him. 

“Will,” Hannibal spoke quietly, leaning over the back of the couch, “I do not allow eating in my living room, so I will have to ask that you come to the table. I hope you like what I prepared for you.”

Will nodded and stood up, turning off the TV’s prattle about events that had not yet happened in that time. He followed Hannibal back to the dining room and sat, half-smiling to himself when he saw what Hannibal had made for him.

“Biscuits and gravy?”

“It was a guess,” Hannibal gestured at his chair, “and I hope, a good one. You seem pleased.”

“I haven’t had biscuits and gravy in years,” Will sat down and allowed Hannibal to serve him. The biscuits were freshly made, and there were bits of perfectly browned sausage in the white gravy, along with little flecks of cracked pepper. He waited until Hannibal sat down to start eating. 

The meal had passed uneventfully, in the true memory. The biscuits and gravy had been filling and delicious, reminding him of meals he had had as a kid. As this reckless, twisted, memory continued it became something else. Hannibal ladled another portion out on his plate, and the chunks of meat became larger, the white gravy taking on a pink tinge where it touched the meat. 

“Hannibal… what is this?”

“Garrett Jacob Hobbs,” Hannibal spoke evenly, guiding a piece of the meat to his lips, “I thought it would benefit you, to have a trophy.”

“I…don’t need a trophy, I’m not…”

“A killer?” Hannibal’s eyes sparked unnaturally from where he sat at the head of the table, “You said yourself, you liked killing him.”

Will looked down at his plate, using the fork to cut away a piece of biscuit. A piece of meat balanced on the gravy laden bread. Carefully, he lifted it. “I got so close to Hobbs. Even after he died.”

“You had consumed him. Will,” Hannibal pursed his lips for a moment, then continued, “we do the same things. In different ways. What happens when you consume someone?”

“People have cannibalized the dead,” Will’s voice stuck in his throat, “to commemorate them. To, uh, gain some sort of power from them through assigning some kind of symbolism to each part. There’s survival cannibalism, and, uhm.”

Hannibal took a drink from his wine glass while Will spoke, having the demeanor of a teacher patiently waiting for an over eager student to stammer out their answer. Over eager student…was that really how he was conceptualizing himself in this fantasy? It was nothing based in reality, more of a memory that had derailed and become its own entity. It was a conversation with Hannibal he could never actually have. 

“Eating someone establishes you as being superior to them,” Will spat out, dropping his fork on the plate, “if you’re consuming their flesh, they’re…they’re nothing. They’re animals.”

Hannibal set the wine glass down and Will continued over the clink of the glass against the wooden table, “But it can’t be as simple as that. There was… there was more deliberation in it, in every meal you fed me. There was something more. You’ve got one fucking big ego, Hannibal, but I can’t just let that be the excuse.”

“Who are you talking to?” a nurse peered over Hannibal’s shoulder, hugging a clipboard to her chest, “Mr. Graham? Are you alright?”

Hannibal was as still as a statue, a phantom in his own mind, soon giving way to the concrete form of the nurse. She was dressed in plain blue scrubs, her hair tied up behind her head. Will rubbed a hand over his face and looked at the room he was in for the first time. It was plain, and designed to keep him from doing anything to himself. 

“Yeah,” he gulped, then spoke again, “yeah, I want to talk to Jack Crawford.”


	5. Chapter 5

Will slumped against the door, resting his head against the cold metal. He’d screamed himself raw, demanding that he be able to make a phone call. At first, the staff had tried to talk to him. Then, they locked the door and just let him scream. Anger had turned into desperation. Desperation was now the dull torn ache in his throat. 

He coughed, choking on the soreness, and hugged his knees against his chest. In the grander scheme of the world, 72 hours was nothing. Locked in this small room, it felt like an eternity. And besides, what if they decided to not let him go? The screaming fit he’d indulged in hadn’t helped his case for sanity in the least. He knew that, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.

He wanted a god damn phone. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in this room. 

He lifted his head and looked across the dim room. His voice cracked when he spoke, “You’re not here, Hannibal.”

“That is true, and yet… you are speaking to me now,” Hannibal’s voice purred from the darkest corner of the room, “do you find it reassuring? Have I become that mirror in your mind?”

“If you had,” Will croaked, “it would mean that I’m becoming you. That I’m--”

“Consuming me?” Hannibal smiled faintly, “I quite enjoy the irony. I hope that you do, too.”

“Not particularly,” Will got up and moved to sit down in the darkness, beside the Hannibal that wasn’t there, but was more real than anything else in his life at this moment. He leaned his head back against the wall, “You’re in a cell, too. Far away from here. Now, that… that’s amusing.”

“Not so,” Hannibal looked at him, those maroon eyes sparking red in the low light, “at least, not for me. I will not be captive long. Neither will you.”

“You seem so sure,” Will touched his own throat, “of course you would. You’re not really here. So, you’re speaking my fears. Right.”

Hannibal chuckled darkly, “Is that what is happening right now, Will? I am becoming the voice of fear. Odd, when I am already in the position of being your voice of reason. Perhaps that is the most unsettling thing of all for you. Even though years have passed, it is still my voice that you hear, talking you down, keeping you from doing what you desire most.”

“I’d think you’d be talking me into it.”

“Not every man is a murderer, though all are capable of it. You have a killer’s mind with the morals and heart of a Good Man. Do you know what happens to Good Men, Will?”

“I’m sure you’ll elaborate on it,” Will turned his head to look at Lecter, to stare into his maroon eyes in a way that he wouldn’t dare do if he was beside the man in reality, “even if I don’t want to hear.”

“Good Men get fucked,” the vulgarity sounded odd in Hannibal’s precise manner of speaking, “life devours them whole, spits them back out. And why? All because they were Good Men and couldn’t act on the same crude impulses that drive others to do horrible deeds.”

“Are your impulses crude?” Will asked, watching Lecter’s face. He could remember so many details about his face, the way his skin creased and folded. The fact that he had laugh lines made Will’s stomach flip. Did devils laugh? Will didn’t have to wonder that, really. He had seen Hannibal smile. He had heard his laugh. There was a time when it seemed like those expressions of happiness were reserved for Will… and of course, inappropriate moments. 

“Not at all,” Hannibal replied, folding his hands in his lap. It was then that Will realized that Hannibal was wearing the last thing he had seen him in – a bright orange jumpsuit. Will didn’t really want to reflect further on the fact that Hannibal was distinctly flagged as a captive, while he was himself captive. It was too close to their worlds merging, and too close to him accepting whatever was happening to him right now as being reality. No matter how solid Hannibal felt beside him, he wasn’t real. For once, that felt more horrifying than the thought of Hannibal actually sitting beside him. If Hannibal was there, that at the very least meant he wasn’t alone.  
What kind of fucked up logic was that?

He shook his head, picking at the hem of his pants, “I’m losing my mind.”

“That is true. It is good that you are being honest with yourself, Will. If you are incapable of being honest with yourself, who can you be honest with?”

“That’s…bullshit,” Will scoffed, “no one is honest with themselves. I mean, shit. Are you? Do you get up every morning, look in the mirror and say ‘I’m murderously insane and I eat people’.”

Hannibal shifted in the dark, turning slightly more towards him and Will found himself staring at his lips. Blood was gathered at the corners of his mouth, and flecked on his teeth. The more he focused on it, the more Will felt he was staring at his reflection. He lifted his hand and felt the dried blood on his own chin, pushed his fingers past his lips, as if the tips of his fingers would be able to feel the blood on the enamel of his teeth.

• • • • • •

The battery popped out of the cell phone when it hit the ground, slipping out of Molly’s fingers. She stared at it numbly, unwilling to acknowledge what she’d just been told.

How…? She’d always known that Will had a dark side. It was something that he didn’t like to talk about, and something that had poisoned their lives one too many times. But this… this was something she was unable to come to terms with, no matter how much she loved Will Graham. 

She sat down on the cold kitchen tile, cradling her head in her hands. She’d slept beside him for years now, as his wife. She’d kissed his lips, she’d let him inside of her in the most intimate way possible. But this…

A nurse had entered Will’s room in order to check on him, after he had gone silent following a screaming spell. She had found him seemingly unconscious on the floor. When she leaned over him to check his vitals, he had attacked her. Using his teeth, he had ripped off her ear, then proceeded to tear the flesh off of her face. Three orderlies were needed to pull him off of her and sedate him. The nurse was more than likely going to live, though the damage to her face was irreparable. 

Molly let out a shaking breath and turned her head to look at the refrigerator. Slowly, she pulled herself off the ground, her tear laden eyes focusing on the drawings that were stuck to the refrigerator door with colorful magnets. There, amongst the charmingly deformed dog drawings of her son, was something far more sinister. 

She reached out and picked the piece of paper out from under the Footprints magnet that her mother had given her. It was simple, a copy of the recipe that Lecter had sent to Will. But, there was something off about her husband’s handwriting, something far more meticulous about the way that the letters were formed. She sat back down on the floor, holding the scrap of paper. It wasn’t the recipe that worried her. It was the fact that a page of their address book was torn out and stapled to it.


	6. Chapter 6

For the second time that night, Molly was standing on her neighbor’s porch, pressing her thumb against the doorbell. She looked over her shoulder, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, as if she expected to see Will standing behind her, covered in blood. She tried to remember how fragile he had looked, shivering on the porch while they waited for the police to come. Thinking about that just made her wonder why he was in the ocean in the first place. Had he been trying to wash away evidence?

She pushed on the doorbell again, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Finally, her neighbor pulled open the door, “Do you know what time it is, Mrs. Graham?”

Molly looked at her watch, “Three… I’m sorry, Marcy. I just need to pick up Willy.” She didn’t mention the relief she felt when Marcy answered the door. She’d only seen Richard earlier, when she had dropped off her son. The address book page that had been stapled to the recipe card had been an entry for Richard and Marcy Goslin, their next-door neighbors. Will had always been friendly towards them, but had told Molly he was suspicious of how nice they were. He acted as if their niceness was somehow indicative of something sinister. 

“Is Will alright?” Marcy asked, gesturing for Molly to come inside, “You seemed really shaken up earlier.”

“He’s,” Molly paused. These people didn’t know about what Will had done at the hospital. They didn’t need to know. Quiet, nice, people were capable of the most judgment, “He’s just fine. He’ll be home, soon.”

Marcy nodded and disappeared into the house to get Molly’s son. While she was gone, Molly indulged herself in the sick shiver that originated in her stomach. She didn’t know how she was going to go back into her house, how she was going to look at pictures of Will, without imagining what he’d done to the nurse. She couldn’t help but wonder what it was about the card that Hannibal Lecter had sent that had set her husband off this badly. Will had always had some instability, some deep darkness, but nothing like this. 

She’d pulled herself together by the time Marcy came back down the stairs, carrying Willy on her hip. Molly took her son gladly, hugging his sleepy body against her own, “Thank you, Marcy… I am sorry for waking you up.”

“That’s alright, Molly,” Marcy shifted back to familiarity, the annoyance that had been in her voice when she had opened the door gone now, “get some rest.”

Molly carried her son back home, back towards the nightmare that only she was aware of. She had no intentions of telling the little boy about what Will had done. He had enough nightmares from the close encounter with Francis Dolarhyde. He didn’t need to see Will as a monster now, too. 

She tucked him into bed and started to pack her bags.

• • • • • •

Hannibal Lecter half opened his eyes, feeling the haze of a sedative in his system. There was a distinct pressure across his chest, his arms, and his legs that indicated immediately that he was in five point restraints. He lifted his chin, confirming that the pressure around his head was indeed what amounted to a crude muzzle. He was incapable of moving, but that didn’t mean that he was helpless.

He drew a quiet breath, then held it, listening to the sound of someone else breathing in the room. Partially opening his mouth, he allowed the scents in the room to wash over his palette. 

“Will. Long time, no see. How nice of you to pay me a visit. I apologize that I’m rather incapable of properly greeting you right now.”

There was no response, just the quiet sound of breathing. Hannibal tried to turn his head, but found that he quite naturally could not. The fact that Will was not responding to him was somewhat infuriating. It felt like he was being taunted by his presence. 

“It would be polite of you to respond, dear William,” Hannibal continued, “allow me that courtesy, at the very least.” 

Will still refused to respond. Hannibal clenched his fists, making more of an effort to turn his head. The movement attracted the attention of the orderlies in charge of containing him. 

“Mr. Graham, if you don’t stop wiggling around, we’re going to have to sedate you again. We don’t want to do that right now,” one of them spoke nearby and Hannibal smiled. Well, that was a reasonable explanation for why Will was not responding. Were they together?

Something tugged at the back of his mind, trying to tell him how improbable that was, how unlikely. That something continued a to wriggle, telling him that something was very wrong, something was terribly wrong with what was happening. There was something wrong with his skin, his teeth, and his body. There was something rotten inside of his skull. 

“Thank you for complying, Mr. Graham,” the orderly spoke again. This time, Hannibal could not resist commenting. 

“Thank you, for not sedating him. Having conversations with individuals under sedation is rather difficult.”

There was a pause, and the orderly cleared his throat, “Mr. Graham, who are you talking to?”

“It is alright to tell them, Will,” Hannibal murmured, and even he noticed there was something wrong about his voice, and about the way he was speaking. It wasn’t his diction, his tone. It was someone else, doing a poor imitation. 

Again, there was a long pause, then the orderly directed a question to him, “What is your name?”

“Hannibal Lecter,” the imitation was breaking down, the voice sounding more and more ragged and scream raw, “you may call me Doctor Lecter.”

“Shit, he’s absolutely lost his mind,” the orderly coughed under his breath, then cleared his throat yet again, “alright, Doctor Lecter. We’re going to get another doctor in here for you to talk to. Is that alright?”

“I want to speak with Will,” Hannibal’s voice became more and more like Will Graham’s, “why won’t he speak to me?”

He was left in the dark, demanding to know why Will wouldn’t speak to him.

• • • • • •

Hannibal Lecter sat on the floor of his cell with his back against the wall. The toilet was gurgling quietly beside his head, providing a neutral sound within the silence that he was for once grateful for. Briefly, his gaze fixed on the television screen beyond Clarice Starling, where a gospel preacher was still flailing his arms. Clarice’s presence meant, at the very least, that the program was on mute.

They had been sitting in silence for seven minutes now. His cell was dark, giving him some freedom to watch her without being observed himself. The religious program on the TV illuminated her skin, making her appear as something unreal in this hellish atmosphere. 

Clarice let out of a puff of breath, and tried again, “Doctor Lecter?”

He tilted his head, watching her stand up. He guessed that she was going to make another plea, another offer, anything to get him to speak.

She dug into her purse, and Hannibal heard the distinct click of the audio recorder being turned off. This was more interesting than any plea. He stood up as well, walking to the edge of the net that kept him from reaching through the bars. Clarice looked down the hallway, then looked back towards his cell. 

“Did you send something to Will Graham?” her voice was just above a whisper. It was conspiratorial, not fearful. She wanted to speak with him without being overheard.

Hannibal lifted his hand to the net, resting it on the fibers, “I sent him a card. A simple card, and a recipe that I thought he would enjoy.”

“What was the recipe? Was it…?”

“If it were, I would not tell you. No, it was something that I knew he enjoyed. I made it for him once, when he felt he was losing control. Old fashioned comfort food.” He picked up her twang, throwing it back at her, with his reply. 

“Do you know what he’s done?”

“No. Tell me.”

Clarice looked down the row of cells, drew a breath and spoke quietly, “He was placed under a psychiatric hold. His wife was afraid he was attempting suicide. While under the hold he gored a nurse… similar to what you did, here.”

Hannibal pushed against the net, reaching for the bars, as if he could actually reach out and touch this delicious piece of news. Clarice saw the movement of the net and moved back a step, “Doctor Lecter?”

“Send him my regards, Clarice,” Hannibal took his hand away from the net and turned back to the darkness of his cell, “good-bye.”

He listened to the sharp sound of her high heels echo down the hallway, and sat down on his cot. Barny came down the hall after Clarice was gone, apologizing to Hannibal before he turned up the volume on the television.

“That is alright, Barny. I understand that this is not your decision,” Hannibal replied to the orderly, though he was certain his voice was drowned out by the sound of the television. When Barny had gone, he settled on the cot and closed his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal’s breath caught in his ear and Will swallowed hard. That slight hitch was the only indication that the other man had given him that he was enjoying himself in the least. The slight shuddering breath was followed by a soft kiss to the shell of his ear. Will leaned his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder, trying to kiss the side of his neck. Something about the way his neck was exposed was demanding to be kissed, to be tasted. As Will tried, Hannibal’s arm around his chest tightened and he pressed deeper inside of him. His breath hitched again. 

“Hannibal….”

“It’s no secret you’ll feel better if you cry, when waking from a bad dream. Don’t you sometimes think it’s real…but it’s only false emotions that you feel,” Hannibal’s voice whispered huskily in his ear and he moved, drawing a whimper from Will. 

“Wha-what?” Nothing about what Hannibal had said sounded right. He touched his arm, feeling the tension in the other man’s tendons as he held him this close. Then, he dropped his other hand lower, to where Hannibal was touching him. The feeling of warm, slick, fluid over Hannibal’s knuckles and fingers was exciting, eliciting another soft sound from Will. Had he? So soon? He continued to feel, tracing the details of the man’s wrist, his knuckles… the handle of the linoleum knife. Slowly, he bowed his head, looking down the length of his own body. 

Will sputtered, gripping Hannibal’s wrist. Blood coated both of their hands the deeper Hannibal hooked the linoleum knife into his gut. Those skilled hands moved the knife, just barely, and Will moaned – not in pleasure, but in sick, distant pain that he could not actually feel, watching himself being slowly disemboweled. Worse, he found that he was helping, holding on to Hannibal’s wrist as if to guide his actions. 

The words that had come from Hannibal’s lips were the lyrics to a song that was playing over a tinny speaker somewhere in the distance. The melody was slow, almost a lullaby. “If your sweetheart sends a letter of goodbye…” 

“This isn’t real,” Will choked out, dropping his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder again. Anything was better than watching their hands working together. Hannibal chuckled in his ear, his teeth just barely grazing his skin. 

“Nothing has been real for quite some time, Will. But understanding that is a step towards normalcy.” 

“This… what is happening right now, this isn’t normal.”

“Wish fulfillment,” Hannibal supplied, and inhaled deeply, pressing his face into Will’s hair, “and perhaps a perversion of the intimacy you desired with me.”

“We never…” Will shook his head, gripping Hannibal’s wrist. 

“No, and yet, I am the only person to have touched you so intimately. There is nothing more intimate than this. Your life is in my hands. Your death, my decision.”

“I didn’t die,” Will swallowed, turning his head away from Hannibal slightly. “I lived.”

“There is some room for error. Consider this,” Hannibal shifted slightly, breathing on Will’s neck, “you are one of the few people to be able to appreciate this intimacy in retrospect.”

Will coughed out a laugh, “Thanks. That’s…that’s something I should hold onto. Cherish.”

“It is.”

They both fell silent, Will trying not to listen to the sounds he made every time Hannibal moved the knife. He tried not to think of the act that he’d prefer, the act that he had let his mind momentarily project onto this memory. 

“Hannibal…where am I?” he asked, his voice strained as he attempted to ignore the sensation of the other man’s hand in his abdomen. The feeling of fingers closing around his intestine was a strange one. The outer coating presented no sensation, but he was aware of the foreign, external, pressure. 

“In a psychiatric hospital. You have been here for several days now, after you were involuntarily committed,” Hannibal’s hand paused, “your stay has been extended due to a ruling that you are, in fact, a danger to others.”

“What did I do?” Will’s voice barely rose above a whisper. He tightened his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist.

“You convinced yourself that you had become me, and gored a nurse,” Hannibal replied evenly, “I would congratulate you on the effort, however it was rather unpracticed and brutal.”

“You…did the same thing,” Will’s brows creased and he turned his head to look at this mental projection of Hannibal. His face was so calm, so self-assured. 

“Yes, of course. Your impulse was based on my actions. However, there was a distinct difference between our actions.”

“You ate her tongue.”

“Beyond that. My actions were not based on impulse, nor delusion. I was fully aware of what I was doing. Your actions were based on a delusion, opportunity, and the impulse to act upon your delusion. That violence was the only way for you to truly become me.”  
“I don’t want to be you,” Will pulled Hannibal’s hand out of his abdomen, forcing him to let go of the length of intestine he had been pulling free. He listens to the clatter of the linoleum knife on the ground, repeated again and again, taking the place of the song over the tinny radio. 

“No,” Hannibal’s bloody fingers move to Will’s lips as he speaks, “you only wanted intimacy with the only other human you felt could understand you in this world. No one else sees the world as you do. No one, but me. Molly is a poor replacement, a substitute that meets basic needs but in the end it is all just an act. Your heart isn’t in it. You’re a good man, Will. You’d rather destroy yourself than see yourself become… this. Even when you had lost control, you tried to self-destruct. To save people.”

Will didn’t speak, tasting the blood on Hannibal’s fingers while they rested against his lips. He closed his eyes, for once able to remember himself walking down the beach. He had paused outside their neighbors house, holding a knife in his hand. He had stared into their windows and played their murder in his head, detailing his design, exactly how they’d die… and how he’d serve biscuits and gravy to Molly and Willy in the morning, a smile on his face.

He had taken a step towards the house, shifted his hold on the knife, then turned. It seemed like his body was walking itself into the water, determined to do away with the killer that was rising to the surface. He remembered the water pulling at his clothes, the first gasp of air as he was pulled under and pushed back to the surface by the whims of the currents. If Molly hadn’t saved him, he wouldn’t be here now. 

“I admired you, and wanted to taste your heart… that good man’s heart. Now, you have become something else,” Hannibal spoke again, dropping his hand to Will’s chest. 

Will woke up in restraints, the pressure of Hannibal’s hand on his chest resolving itself into the pressure of a strap holding him down to the bed. He looked up at the buzzing fluorescent light and sucked in a harsh breath. There was something playing on a radio outside of his room, some old tapes intended to calm the patients, entertain the nurses or just provide some kind of sound because humans despise silence. Will closed his eyes, feeling Hannibal Lecter’s disdain for him, despite the fact that he had not been in the same room with the man for a number of years. There was no way that Hannibal could have known what he had become, and yet he found himself terrified of it.

Terrified of losing his admiration and his respect. 

He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come to him again, willing himself to enter a state that was away from this reality. Was there any wonder he now desperately wanted to avoid it?

• • • • • •

Hannibal took a deep breath. The smell of the parking garage was abhorrent, but it was still different from the numbing and grotesque scents of a prison block. Momentarily, he sat on the back bumper of the ambulance, carefully wiping his hands clean of blood and listening to the mundane sounds of life. Somewhere in the world above, a dog was barking. Somewhere within the depths of the parking garage, a door slammed.

He stood up and turned back to the ambulance, closing and securing the doors. It wouldn’t be long before it was found. He had been sure to leave Pembry’s face behind on the gurney, and to place the EMTs in their respective stations. For the time being, the ambulance would look occupied. Perhaps the men were on a break? A cursory glance would reveal nothing. Only that primitive part of the mind that disliked stillness in the human form would catch on, and so many people were quick to dismiss that feeling of being unsettled. 

He walked away from the ambulance then, wondering to himself if Clarice had found Jame Gumb yet. He would be certain to congratulate her, once his identity was revealed, despite the risk to his freedom. She deserved greater recognition and congratulations. Jack Crawford would only be able to give her that distant kind of approval that he had lapsed into after everything had come to a head. 

Hannibal turned a corner and descended a small staircase. Were it not for Will’s poor decisions, he would have considered paying the man a personal visit. He wanted to see the scars on his face and on his abdomen. Will had, after all, wriggled away from him twice now. It was a shame Dolarhyde had not turned out to be more efficient. If he’d been successful Will would never have become the disgrace he was now. It would have saved him from that fate and ultimately would have been a mercy. It was irritating that Will had lead to his capture, of course, but the side effect of that was the fact that Will was now alone in the world without a paddle.

It was only a matter of time before he lost himself entirely.

**Author's Note:**

> Be-eating-you on Tumblr.


End file.
